Touch
by achieving elysium
Summary: "She has played by the rules for so long, knows how to bend and twist and where to cut off her emotions. Where to fit on another skin over her own, a mask of emotion and obedience. But now - now the rules have changed. Now her heart is caught in the dangerous, treacherous web of half-truths the color of blood." The love story of Lysandra and Wesley, once upon a time. Lysandrey.


**Touch  
** achieving elysium

 _note: welcome aboard to the half-sunken, shot-to-death SS Lysandrey._

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i. flicker

"Lysandra," Arobynn purrs her name, the syllables rolling off his tongue slowly, smoothly. He murmurs it as if it is some sort of a prayer, like she is something to be worshipped. Like she is not human - and to him, she isn't. Less than human, nothing more than a prize.

 _He's right about one part of it_ , she thinks to herself. She is less than human; a wild beast rages under her skin, and she is the only one who knows it.

"Arobynn," she says, angling her face down a little and looking up at him through her lashes. She says his name the same way he has said hers a thousand times, sweet and slow and sultry. Low and beckoning. Seductive, for she is not human, never human. _A goddess_ , some men have called her, _a siren, a dream._

He smiles, a flash of bright teeth, teeth that have grazed her skin and marked her, warm and cold and everything in between. She does not shudder when he comes closer, his mouth close to her ear. He breathes against her cheek, warm air like a soft wind of another time, when things were easier. When the world seemed so beautiful and bright, so ripe for the taking - _hers_ to take, if she so wished.

"You look stunning," he tells her, and a finger traces the curve of her cheek, running along her jaw. " _Absolutely_ beautiful." She does not flinch at his touch.

She eyes him, angling her face again to let the light catch in it. Her lips curl up ever-so-slightly, a coy smile adorning her face. "Mm," she hums. "And you look quite handsome yourself." She croons the words, and as much as she hates it, they're true. He _does_ look quite handsome, dressed in a black jacket pulled a _little_ tight at the arms and molds around him smoothly. Silver-buttoned, well-tailored, and very, very expensive.

She could likely pay off a good amount of her debt with that jacket, the cuffs adorned with more silver thread, curling, dancing designs.

"You think?" and his voice is but a whisper. He steps back, silver eyes gleaming. Fingers wrap around her wrist, and the warmth bleeds through her sleeve. It's gentle, his grip, but strong. There is no leaving, no disobeying.

"Oh, I _know_ ," she tells him as he pulls her through the halls. She keeps close to him, the fine fabric of her dress a barrier between skin. Soon, soon, it will be gone. But she is not afraid, cannot afford to be afraid, even as he hurts her, bruises blooming across pale skin and soft sighs escaping her lips.

But that is not what concerns her, the pain. She is strong, raised to be a whore at every beck and call for hungry men with hungry eyes and an aching emptiness in their souls, their hearts, that they try to fill with sex. The pleasure of pain.

No, what concerns her is that the game has changed. She has played by the rules for so long, knows how to bend and twist and where to cut off her emotions. Where to fit on another skin over her own, a mask of emotion and obedience. But now - now the rules have changed. Now her heart is caught in the dangerous, treacherous web of half-truths the color of blood. Wesley, kind and handsome and funny. Strong, too, but a different kind of strength than her own.

Wesley. Wesley. His name pounds through her with every beat of her heart. Wesley. Wesley. Wesley.

She hadn't thought much of him. Not for a long time; he was just another assassin in Arobynn's hands. He'd arrived later than she had, a young boy at twelve and she at eight, one year after Arobynn had found her. She'd watched from the shadows as innocence was beaten out of him, as the blood that stained his hands slowly changed from his own to those of others.

Until all those weeks ago. Until Celaena was thrown into chains and Sam- Sam was-

A part of her had broken on the way home after learning of his death, all thoughts of Wesley judging her be damned. She shook and cried and screamed her grief, and he had inched across the carriage until she found herself in his arms. She didn't know him - but they had both known Sam, had... loved him, and when she'd pulled back at met Wesley's eyes, she knew he understood.

And then a week after that, he'd been waiting in the carriage for her, ordered to be an escort as she went to another appointment. They'd stayed silent for the first part, Lysandra leaning her head against the side of the carriage and staring out as the floor beneath her jostled and bounced.

 _I'm sorry,_ he'd told her, and she'd startled, her eyes finding his. They were warm, truthful. So different from the men she knew, cold-hearted and their eyes filled with the lies of a nation. _For what Arobynn makes you do._ He was the only person who'd ever apologized, who'd ever given her a shred of real emotion.

She'd given him a little shrug. It was her fate, her burden to bear, and one day she would free herself from it - but that day was far into the future. She didn't want to think about it, didn't like thinking about it too much, especially not half an hour before a man would pin her to a bed, perhaps, body hot and heavy-

So she'd asked for him to distract her, to take her away for a little while. And he had. And then he was there when she was finished, her dress torn and makeup smeared, there to make her laugh and gasp and _live_. And then he was there, again and again and again and again.

Wesley. He was hers, but she was not his. Would never be.

She did not shake when they reached Arobynn's chambers, his grip tightening. Did not react as he snaked another arm around her, teasing, his hands finding skin and exposed spots. Did not make a move when he stopped her right outside the room, her hands wrapped around him.

His cold lips met her throat, and still, Lysandra simply pressed herself closer, playing with that damned jacket. Teeth reached a sensitive spot, and she arched her back, releasing a shaky breath. He was claiming her. She was Arobynn's and no one else's.

A message to those watching. A _warning_. Her breath caught in her throat when Arobynn's fingers found another sensitive place, but that wasn't what had caused it. It was the look in Wesley's eyes as he stared, unable to look away. The pain. The hurt. The helplessness. Grief. Anger. _Love._

But Lysandra only led Arobynn inside, the door clicking behind him and the only sound of heavy breathing and fabric against skin. And tonight - tonight, she would fight back and make her own mark, the only act of defiance she dared do.

She would be that wild beast again for Wesley, her nails like claws down Arobynn's back. He hadn't won yet.

ii. shiver

"Are you cold?" he asks, reaching out a hand to help her into the carriage. He doesn't let himself look, doesn't let his eyes linger where they should not. He focuses on her fingers, marveling at the feel of her skin against his.

Her dress is in tatters, as usual. Her makeup, so carefully done (gold shimmering at the corner of her eyelids, her lips painted rouge like the color of blood) is smeared. Her hair looks like it had been raked through, and perhaps it had, he realizes. Anger fills him; his gut tightens.

"Thank you," she tells him, and her voice is tired and strained as he shrugs off his jacket and slips it around her shoulders. "Ever the gentlemen." But the smile - the smile is real. Gods, she is so beautiful, ruined and broken and used as she is. Some days, he longs to take her away, to free her from her cage.

He smiles back, but all he can think about is the way her hair falls in her eyes, how warm she feels, the curve of her lips so soft and pink.

He doesn't ask her about the appointment; she doesn't tell him about it. Instead, they make small talk. He tells her about Archer Finn this morning, when he'd tripped over thin air and crashed into the servant bringing in breakfast, oatmeal getting all over his fancy new suit. She throws her hand over her mouth, laughing, as he mimics Archer's furious screech and his shocked, angry expression. There is a brightness in her eyes now, and he wonders - wonders - if that light is because of him.

Wesley is no fool. He knows what Arobynn will do, knows the consequence of love in a cold, cruel world of blood and death and money. But Lysandra, the Lysandra he knows, the woman who loves chocolates and the smell of the earth after rain and the color gold and early mornings as the sun rises, standing at her balcony staring out over the silent buildings, and stories - endless stories of adventure and bravery and ambition...

"Wesley?" Lysandra asks, and the way she says his name almost kills him. She does not say it like she says Arobynn's name, like they are predator and prey and prizes to be won, does not say it like the way she says (said) Sam's name, a brother... no, she says it like it means something to her. Like _he_ means something to her.

"Wesley?" she tries again, and he realizes in the same moment that he has not let go of her hand and that he is in love with her. The terrible, beautiful, kind of love that makes him burn and glow like a thousand embers, that knocks the air right out of his chest as he stares at her.

"Lysandra," he breathes, and he can't stop looking at her. Not _at_ her, not really, not at the subtle curves of her breasts through tears in dark blue silk, not at the taunting, smooth skin of her legs as her dress rides up _just_ slightly, but at _her_. Not a prize, not a plaything, but a person. Human. Mortal, the blood flowing through her veins as red as his. Who she _is_.

His hands are shaking as he holds one of her own in his, small and pale, her nails like crescent-moons. She places another hand on top of his and squeezes, lacing their fingers together and holding them until he stops shaking.

Gods. _Gods._ "I want to kiss you," he finally murmurs, and there is no turning back, not now. Something flickers in her eyes. He does not move closer; it _is_ not his choice, after all, though it can be. The thought makes him sick. "May I kiss you?" he asks, and there's something raw in his voice he hasn't heard in years.

"Yes," she breathes, and he leans in slowly, gingerly, like a child testing new boundaries. And then he presses his lips to hers, careful, careful. It lasts for fleeting seconds before he pulls away, watching Lysandra carefully. Waiting.

Then she throws herself across the narrow space and closes the gap between their lips again, her hands nesting in his hair as he slides his own across her bare shoulders, savoring the moment. And this kiss is not slow or ginger or careful, it is wondrous and powerful and _real_.

iii. silver

He is the one to teach her how to fight. How to defend herself. He doesn't say why, but they both know - the bruises that adorn her body as noticeable as her finest jewelry. He sneaks in the nights he can get away for a little bit, and he teaches her _everything._

How to use her gracefulness - gracefulness beaten into her by Madam Florine, hours of dancing every day - as a weapon. How to twist her body in a way that is oh-so-familiar, not to seduce but to escape. How to walk quietly; he tells her to pretend she is a fine lady walking on air, and it works. How to hide things, so many things, from daggers to vials of poison to concealing them in plain sight, in her hair and at her throat, gleaming.

No weapons, not yet. He teaches her survival - and that is the difference, for Lysandra is not a killer like him.

The only sign of Wesley's presence is the soft whisper of wind and a draft at her back. No sound, not even as he picked the lock or as he clambers in, legs long and gangly. She smiles at him, his dark silhouette outlined by moonlight.

"Wesley," she says, standing from her seat. "You said you weren't coming tonight."

He doesn't answer, only looks at her with those deep, brown eyes. There's a look in his eyes she's never seen before, a heaviness, an emotion she can't place. Not hunger, not lust, but something _more_.

"Wesley?" she asks, and he crosses the room to stand in front of her. "Are you alright?"

His head jerks a little, as if he had been in a daze and is only now awakening. "Yes," he murmurs, almost too quietly for her to hear. "I'm here with you, after all."

"Are we working tonight?" she asks, trying to ignore the thrumming of her heart or the heat that rushes to her cheeks. He frowns, scratching at his chin, but his hands slip into the folds of his cloak. He pulls out five daggers - throwing knives.

"Yes," he says, and lays down the daggers onto her desk. He crosses the room to the far wall, across from her bed, and pushes aside the armoire to reveal a blank wall. Soon, it will be riddled with holes and craters; when they are finished, she will help him push the furniture back in place so no one will ever know.

Ten minutes later, Lysandra curls her fingers around the dagger. There are two already embedded in the wall, so close to each other she'd been afraid one would pierce the other, courtesy of Wesley. Now he leans against her desk and watches. She can feel his eyes on her figure, his gaze intense as he follows her movements.

 _Feet apart. Shoulders squared. Breathe._ She rolls her arm back and shifts her feet. _Steady, steady._ She focuses on a spot on the wall and aims, her wrist flicking back.

"Just like a dance," Wesley says from behind her. He's moved closer. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and-

The dagger sinks into the wall. It is not anywhere _near_ the place she'd been aiming for, but Wesley steps closer and smiles. She can feel the heat emanating from him. "I missed," she says lightly, and he gives her a little shrug.

"Let me show you," he tells her, and Lysandra has a sneaking suspicion that this is just an excuse for him to come even closer, so close now that it is torture that they are not touching, her body pressed to his. With a gentleness she's only seen when he's with her, he takes her wrist and steps so he can guide her.

He takes her other arm and points it to the wall. "You see where I'm aiming?" he asks, and she follows their linked arms.

"Mmhm," she hums, but it's getting hard to focus.

"You don't need to have your arm there, to aim," he says, and his voice rumbles, deep in his chest. "but it helps, sometimes, to know where you're going. To know what you want." He draws their arms back together; she can feel his muscles tense.

And then they throw the dagger together. It sails through the air and lands - unsurprisingly - where Wesley had aimed. She smiles a different smile, one of dark triumph.

"Want to try without me?" he asks, though he hasn't let go of her. She wets her lips with her tongue and turns in his grasp, lowering her arms slightly and staring up at him. Lysandra sees the change in his eyes immediately.

"Not quiet yet," she purrs, and he swallows hard.

"I think I can live with that," he says, shifting slightly so he can grab another dagger. He guides her in throwing it again, but this time, Lysandra is not focused on the wall or the dagger in her hand. She should be, but having Wesley so close to her, the feeling of him standing at her back, right there...

"You said it helps," she begins, twisting to look at him again. His arms wrap around her. "to know where I'm going. To know what I want." She raises on her tiptoes to touch his face; his eyes are molten, and in the light they almost look gold. He cups her cheek, and his palm is rough and warm and familiar.

"Yeah," he breathes, and Lysandra smiles.

"It's good, then," she says lightly. "that I know what I want."

He is smiling when she fits her lips to his, and somehow, Lysandra knows they won't be getting much more done tonight.

iv. torch

She's crying when she steps into the carriage. He is waiting inside, like he always does, a lazy grin on his face that soon thins into a line. The door shuts softly behind her, and then she's tumbling into his arms, a mess of tears and loud sobs.

He just holds her tightly and strokes her hair until she stops, curling up next to him, sniffling every few seconds. She won't talk about; she never does, so Wesley just offers her his handkerchief. It makes him sick, what she has to do to survive in this cruel, cruel world.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into her hair again and again, and she just hiccups in reply.

They don't speak again for a long time, but Wesley is content to hold her, to know that whatever darkness has touched her before cannot reach her now. The familiar anger and hate rises under his skin again, tightening in his chest. It's the same storm of emotions he feels watching her disappear into a client's house, or when Arobynn gets too close to her. It's a lethal rage, something Sam once called a killing instinct.

He'd never understood what Sam had meant. To be so angry, so filled with pain, that would drive him to kill. Sam said... he said he'd kill for Celaena, that their love had run so deep he'd do anything for her. He remembers this clearly, but he hadn't expected that day when the two had been summoned to Arobynn's office.

Celaena had been beaten half to death. Sam had started screaming, cursing at the King of the Assassins; _I'll kill you,_ he cried. _I'll kill you, I swear it!_

But Wesley is beginning to understand now, a little bit. His chest hollows and aches at the thought of Sam, smart and kind. A truly good person despite the monster he'd worked for once upon a time.

Now is not the time for anger, Wesley decides, looking down at Lysandra. "I'm sorry," he whispers again, and she just holds him tighter.

v. burn

The world's all wrong. Things have changed. The center of his universe is no longer Arobynn, a too-hot, scorching sun, but Lysandra, the pale and gentle moon. Wesley begins to see _something_ \- a different life. Something _more_ than this cruel, cruel game where people die just as readily as they breathe.

Something more than dripping blood and scrubbing at his hands again and again even though they're clean. Something more than being punished and crawling up the stairs to his room, no one there to help him. Something more than whispered confessions in a courtesan's carriage and midnight visits.

He craves it. He yearns for that something more, needs it like he needs air- like he needs Lysandra.

Love has changed him - but it does not make him weak. It makes him strong, stronger than he's ever been. He sees things now as they should be seen, bright and ripe yet stained. There are changes to be made, a life to be reinvented.

But this life is not over yet; in fact, it is far from. There are still scores to settle, a last bit of blood to be drawn. He cannot leave the life of an assassin without first repaying a debt, taking the life of one who'd broken worlds. His name is Rourke Farran.

Wesley gently eases the window open, his movements quick but silent. Moonlight spills into the room, a rectangle cutting across the floor and the bed. On it is a woman, fast asleep, dark hair splayed across her pillow. He moves to stand at the foot of her bed, not daring to wake her.

"Lysandra," he breathes, taking her limp hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. She stirs, mumbling something, and Wesley freezes, hardly breathing. She settles again, and he lets go of her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear so it no longer lies over her face. He swallows.

"I love you more than anything," he whispers. "You are my life now."

Wesley pauses, thinking of what to say. "But something needs to be done tonight. One last thing, one last revenge. You will not know until it's over, long done, but..." He wets his lips. "I can't promise I will come back, but I'll fight Death for you, I promise that."

He steps back and turns away. He cannot look at her, cannot turn back - or else he will _never_ be able to leave. But he _does_ pause before climbing out the window. Tucks two letters in the frame - one for Lysandra, _in case I do not come back_ , and the other for Celaena Sardothien.

"I love you," he says again, and the moon seems to shine brighter even as the clouds gather, and it begins to pour.

An hour later, he is nothing more than a ghost outside of Farran's door. There are no guards outside - he _is_ a respected crime lord - but Wesley knows there are three inside, standing watch for Farran. That killing instinct, the lethal rage, rises in him, howling like the midnight storm outside. Water drips down his face, soaks his clothes, and he draws two daggers slowly.

Then he walks in. He is a shadow in the night. A cold wind bearing warning. A ghost. The first guard squints in his direction, and metal gleams in the air, but he is too late. The guard chokes, eyes wide as blood bubbles and drips from his chin. Then he slumps.

Wesley feels nothing. There is only coldness and darkness, ice running through his veins.

"Lark?" a voice calls quietly from further up the stairs. "Lark, 's that you?"

"Lark, what-choo doin', man," another voice growls, accent thick. "Don' play 'roun."

"Oh," Wesley croons, cocking his head to the side. His dagger is still dark with the blood of the first guard - Lark. "I'm not playing around."

They have no time to react as he darts forward, burying his dagger in the gut and heart of the accented guard, a feeble weapon swiped at him by a man with pudgy fingers. Wesley calmly sidesteps the weapon as the light fades from the man's eyes, the arm holding the weapon no longer able to function.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and Wesley drops to the floor. Metal sings as it passes inches above his head, but he continues, undeterred. Wesley uses his position to grab at the man's legs, bringing him down and catching him on top of his newly-freed dagger. He gently lowers the third body to the floor and pulls his weapons free, sheathing them as he steps over the bodies to the bedroom door.

He is halfway to the bed when Farran jerks up, awake, a dagger in hand. "What-" the man growls, the dagger flashing towards Wesley. It's too late. Wesley throws both his daggers, and his aim pays off. They pin Farran to the headboard by his tunic and keep his arms pinned.

He stalks towards the bed and jerks his foot up to step on it. They sink right in like quicksand, and Wesley straddles Farran, pinning his legs down. Belonging to the Assassin's Keep gives him an edge. He knows how to plan meticulously, how to keep a secret, and most importantly, how to move so fast that even the most dangerous opponents are confused. Startled, still recovering from sleep, Farran stands no chance.

"Who are you?" Farran roars, trying desperately to escape. Wesley puts more pressure on his legs and slams a gauntlet-covered fist into soft, unprotected fingers. The mix of metal and strength shatters the bones of Farran's finger, and the crime lord cries out.

"Lark! Hughes! Jenks!" he yells when he realizes what Wesley is planning on doing.

"There's no one to save you now, Farran," Wesley says, and his voice is steely, rough. He draws a third dagger and presses it to Farran's jaw, tracing it and leaving a trail of blood. He can practically smell the man's fear, dank and musty. "Not so brave now, are you? No more cowering behind guards and without anything or anyone to help you. Are you scared, Farran? Tell me, are you scared-" Wesley leans in close so their eyes meet. "of death?"

A muscle in Farran's jaw jumps. "I'm not scared," he drawls, but it's a lie. He can see it in his eyes.

"Oh, but you are," Wesley purrs.

When he finishes, he paints a message on the walls - a warning in dark red. Outside, lightning flashes, illuminating two red-painted figures, one hanging from the rafters, a mockery of an execution, and the other stalking away, cloak billowing behind him.

Wesley slips out into the rain, nearing the iron gate. He tilts his face up to the sky, welcoming the storm. Rain mixes with blood and streaks down his hands, his arms, his clothes. He lets out a breath - and then Wesley is slammed into the gate.

He has no time to move. His weapons are suddenly gone. There's a burst of pain, and he realizes that he cannot move - only faces his attacker. A hood covers his features, only vague shadows to represent his face, but Wesley knows who it is.

"My, my," a cool voice remarks. "Sneaking out again, I suppose. You've been very, very disobedient lately."

He does not flinch. The man removes his hood and smiles even as Wesley spits in his face. He wipes at the mix of blood and saliva with a hand.

"A shame it has to be you. Disobedience only leads to punishment." A blood-tipped dagger, burning against his side. _Lysandra_ , he thinks fleetingly. He wouldn't be coming back after all.

Wesley stares Death in the eyes, a curious silver, and he refuses to scream.

* * *

 **Oops. Bye, Wes.**

 **Hope you guys enjoyed reading _Touch_ \- though I bet I had more fun writing it than you did reading it, hahaha. I need more Lysandrey (I've finally decided on their ship name!) in my life even though Wesley is dead, seeing as the ToG fandom tends to ship people even after they're dead. **

**Also posted on my tumblr, _achieving elysium._ If y'all want more ToG stuff from me, go check out my ToG-centered sideblog - _acourttochangetheworld._ Because Throne of Glass _will_ change the fucking world. **

_achieving elysium_


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